How to Survive Middle School (23 page)

Elliott and I hunch together and eavesdrop.

“Yes, he’s my son,” Lindsay says, shrugging at me and Elliott.

It’s hard to hold back laughter.

“Yes,” Lindsay says, “that would be wonderful. I’ll let him know.”

She presses the phone against her ear and leans forward.

“No, thank
you
. He’ll be very excited to hear that.”

She nods.

“Yes, just let me get some paper.” Lindsay waves her hand, and Elliott whips a sheet of paper and a pen from his backpack.

Lindsay scribbles something, then says, “Thanks again. Good-bye.”

When Lindsay hangs up, her cheeks are bright pink and her hands are flapping. She looks at me, then Elliott, then me again. “David,” she says in this high-pitched voice that sends my heart racing.

“What?”

Lindsay screams, “They’reshowing
TalkTime
on
TheDailyShow
!”

I hear something that sounds like
“TalkTime”
and
“The Daily Show.”

I shake my head. “What?”

She keeps flapping her hands, like she’s hoping to take flight. “David, they’re going to put
TalkTime
on
The Daily Show
.”

“They’re …”

“On tomorrow’s show!”

Elliott punches me really hard in the arm. “David, this is so great. This is so great.”

Lindsay holds both of my hands. “That was a producer from
The Daily Show
. They’re going to play your Jon Stewart
TalkTime
video.”

“Oh, my …”

Lindsay squeezes my hands really hard and we jump and scream. Elliott pumps his fists in the air. “Oh, yeah! Sweet! Oh, yeah!”

Dad walks in just as Lindsay and I fall over and nearly crack our heads on the coffee table.

“What? What are we celebrating?” Dad asks. “Hey, Elliott. Great to see you.” He squeezes Elliott’s shoulder. “So, what’s going on here?”

Breathless, Lindsay explains. “A producer … from
The Daily Show
called. They found out … about David’s videos … on their forum. And they’re playing his video … tomorrow.”

“
The Daily Show
?” Dad asks. “Are you sure it wasn’t somebody playing a trick?”

Lindsay shows Dad the piece of paper.

Dad calls the number and speaks to the producer. He hangs up and says, “It’s true.”

Lindsay and I jump and scream all over again.

“Vos?”
Bubbe asks, coming into the room.

Lindsay explains, and Bubbe hugs me. “Oh, I’m so proud. I told you that Jon Stewart was a mensch!” Then she notices Elliott.

“Bubelah!”
She puts his cheeks in her palms. “So nice to have you back here.” Bubbe looks at me and winks.

“Nice to see you, too, Matzo Ball Mama,” Elliott says, and we all crack up.

“We should have a party,” Lindsay says.

Dad reels back. “A party?”

“Yeah. Let’s have a bunch of people over to watch
The Daily Show
together.”

“I don’t know,” Dad says. “It’s a school night.”

Lindsay puts a hand on her hip and gives Dad “the look.”

“Okay,” he says. “I get it. This is a really big deal.”

“Yeah,” she shrieks. “My little brother’s video is going to be on
The Daily Show
.” She messes up my hair.

I duck out of the way and say, “Quit it,” but inside it feels really good.

Dad scratches his chin. “I guess we could invite Alan Drummond and Alan Wexler.”

“And Sherry and the kids,” Bubbe says.

“And a couple of my friends,” Lindsay chimes in.

“And Sophie,” I say.

Elliott elbows me in the ribs.

“And her mom,” Dad says.

“And Tommy Murphy,” Elliott says.

Lindsay grabs a pillow from the couch and chucks it at him.

“Kidding. I was kidding.” He puts his arms up in self-defense.

It feels so good to have Elliott back.

Dad scans the living room. “I guess if we move the coffee table out and add some chairs and—”

“I’ll make appetizers,” Bubbe says.

“I’ll make seven-layer dip,” Lindsay says.

“And we should have popcorn,” I say, thinking of the night Mom and I camped out and watched
The Daily Show
together.

“Popcorn’s good,” Bubbe says. “And punch. I’ll make a big bowl of fruit punch.”

Dad looks around again, like he’s imagining the room full of people. His gaze stops at the tuba. He walks to the corner and picks it up with a grunt. “I guess it’s time we got rid of this thing.”

My heart squeezes. I remember that awful night with mom and dad and the tuba.

Lindsay sidles up beside Dad. “Definitely,” she says. “Let’s put it on Craigslist.”

“Or eBay,” Elliott says. “My cousin sold a pair of used shoes on eBay and got twenty bucks.”

“Or in the garbage,” Bubbe says, crossing her arms.

I take a deep breath. “I have a better idea.”

Everyone looks at me.

Before I know it, we’re piled in Dad’s car, heading to Sophie’s house, the tuba heavy on my lap. I’m squished in the backseat between Lindsay and Elliott.

When Ms. Meyers opens the door, she invites us in and yells upstairs, “Sophie, company. Come down.”

That’s when I notice something’s missing—the Spanish name tags. The stairs are just stairs. The door is just a door. And I remember Sophie telling me her mom finally took the labels down and is loosening up.

Sophie comes downstairs, her curls bouncing.

“Hey,” she says, tilting her head.

“Hey,” I say, and hand her Mom’s tuba.

Dad clears his throat. “We won’t be needing this anymore, and we thought you might enjoy playing it.”

Sophie squirrels air in her cheeks and lets out a blast.

We all laugh, and Ms. Meyers covers her ears.

“We’ll get you some lessons, honey,” she says, patting Sophie’s shoulder. “The music school would probably give me a discount now.”

Sophie puts the tuba down. “Mom’s teaching trumpet a couple nights a week over at J.A.M.—Jupiter Academy of Music.” She looks at her mom. “She read some advice in that newspaper column ‘Alan’s Answers’ that made her think of it.”

Dad coughs.

“So …,” Bubbe says.

“Thanks for the tuba, David.” Sophie leans over and kisses my cheek.

I break out in pepperminty shivers.

On the way home, Elliott elbows me. “You are so lucky.”

I put my hands behind my head. “Yeah.”

And we both crack up.

When we get home, I show Elliott the mean video Tommy made when he tripped me in the lunchroom. “At least there aren’t any comments,” I say.

“Yeah,” Elliott says, “but it’s got thirty-five views.”

“I know. That stinks,” I say, but I don’t tell Elliott that most of those are probably mine.

Elliott takes over my keyboard.

“What are you—”

He writes a comment on Tommy’s video:
This video sux!—Dora

We crack up and high-five.

The next morning, I ask Dad if I can stay home from school because my video will be on
The Daily Show
.

He says no, but I don’t really mind, because Elliott and I are walking to school together.

Just before the intersection, Elliott asks, “What’s the difference between a rock and Tommy Murphy?”

I shrug.

“A rock has more personality.”

I shove my shoulder into Elliott’s. “Good one.”

Ms. Lovely hands me a note as soon as I walk into class.

“Ms. Petroccia, the media specialist, wants to see you,” she says and hands me a hall pass.

Sophie looks at me and tilts her head.

I shrug.

Tommy Murphy scowls, but I ignore him and head to the media center.

Inside the TV studio, the heavy guy turns to me. His T-shirt reads “Fat. Not Pregnant.” “Here he is,” he says to Ms. Petroccia.

“David,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder, “we were wondering if you’d like to do a special segment on WHMS news. You know, something short and funny, kind of like your videos, but appropriate for Harman. Maybe once a week or so.”

I stare at her. This is even better than I imagined—more fun than just being a newscaster. I can create funny skits about the teachers and the lunchroom. Maybe Elliott can even help.

“If you feel it’s too much … I just thought, you know, since you do such a good job with your videos …”

“No,” I say. “It would be awesome, but I thought only seventh graders—”

“In your case,” Ms. Petroccia says, grinning, “I think we can make an exception.”

The heavy kid high-fives me, then holds up his hand to signal Ellen Winser that it’s time to start.

“Come here tomorrow during fifth period,” Ms. Petroccia says. “I’ll send your teacher a note. And we’ll go over everything.”

I feel great as I walk back to class. I can’t wait to tell Elliott about this at lunch.

About a half hour before everyone’s supposed to arrive for the party, I grab some popcorn from a bowl on the kitchen counter and notice Mom’s letter on top of the mail. With all that happened yesterday, I forgot to read it.

I take the letter to my room, sit at my desk and look at the place where Hammy’s cage used to be. I check online and see that
Hammy Time
has nearly two million views. And Magazine Cover Jon Stewart has over a million. I’m sure that after tonight, that number will spike even higher.